


Revived

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 02:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11370843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel sees Thranduil’s son for the first time.





	Revived

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just read the Fall of Gondolin with Legolas Greenleaf 1.0 :o
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s on the veranda when he sees it: a treasure of great beauty shining in the midday sun. Instantly, Glorfindel changes direction, scurrying back into the house and down the nearest steps, racing along the inner corridors to come out into the gardens, where his breath catches in his throat. His steps falter, only to resume at double the pace, and he all but flies at _Legolas_ , a welcome sight he’d thought long since lost.

He catches the elf from the side in a tight embrace, but he quickly steps around to the front, and he drinks in the heady floral scent that Legolas has always worn. He wears none of the armour of old, but, like Glorfindel, simple robes in the style of Imladris, green and embroidered with silver jewels. The light of the Two Trees is in his face, his eyes as blue as cloudless skies. Glorfindel can’t contain himself, can’t resist, and he tilts to press a firm, desperate kiss against Legolas’ plush lips, finding them just as soft as they ever were. 

He grinds in harder than he means to, hardly dignified for a lord in public gardens, but Legolas is intoxicating. Legolas makes a startled noise against him, delicate hands falling lightly to his chest, neither pulling nor pushing. When Glorfindel can finally stand to part them, he breathes, “ _Legolas_ ,” like a prayer.

Legolas’ fair features are a wash of confusion, and he asks only, “Do I know you?”

Glorfindel laughs. He thinks, at first, that it’s merely the quickly-passing fog of Mandos’ release, and he cheerily answers, “It is Glorfindel.”

But Legolas only looks more lost. He tilts his pretty face, silken hair falling smoothly over his shoulders, paler even than Glorfindel’s. Glorfindel presses, “Of the Golden Flower... do... do you not remember me...?” Legolas shakes his head, and Glorfindel’s lips finally don a frown. “Did Mandos not restore your memory?”

“Mandos?” Legolas repeats, now awash in wonderment, as one that knows little of the Valar. Glorfindel squints, no longer sure, and lifts a hand to cup Legolas’ cheek.

He feels the smooth skin beneath his palm, grazes the tips of his fingers through Legolas’ loose hair, and stares deep into Legolas’ eyes. Legolas meets him back with strength but no comprehension. Glorfindel slowly realizes, “You are very young... too young, and you have not seen the deeds of old.”

“Nay,” Legolas answer, in the same melodic voice that Glorfindel long loved, “but if another of my name and face knew you then, perhaps I wish I had.”

Glorfindel finally releases his hold, stepping back now to eye his prize from head to foot. Legolas, perhaps, has not been released but _reborn_. He would be more than deserving of it. Or perhaps it’s mere coincidence, though the similarities feel far too deep for it, and Glorfindel knows that the Valar have a hand in all things. 

While they simply look at one another, standing an arm’s length apart, Lord Elrond’s voice interrupts, “Ah, there you are, Prince Legolas. Your father is looking for you.”

Legolas turns to eye Elrond as he comes, dipping his head in a respectful bow that Elrond returns. The title of prince sinks into Glorfindel’s mind, and he thinks it must suit well, if this Legolas is anything like the one he knew. When Elrond stops just before them, he adds, “I see you have met Lord Glorfindel. He is the captain of my guards, and thus was out on patrol when the Woodland delegation was received. But you do well to make his acquaintance; he is a warrior of many ancient tales, and he is known as a slayer of Balrogs.”

“Only one,” Glorfindel corrects, though Elrond smiles fondly as though Glorfindel deserves any exaggeration. Legolas’ eyes have already gone wide around the edges, and he looks at Glorfindel in new awe. It compliments his youth—Glorfindel can tell he’s never seen such monstrosities, perhaps even heard few tales, and if Glorfindel has anything to say about it, his generation never will. 

He dips suddenly into a low bow and spouts as he comes up from it, “I should love to hear your stories, my lord.”

Glorfindel could laugh. He returns, “And I should like to apologize for my inappropriate actions, my prince.”

“No,” Legolas insists, “I enjoyed it.” Elrond lifts a single brow, but neither of them fill him in. Instead, Legolas offers, “Perhaps I might walk with you, once I have seen to my father... or perhaps you would like to meet him?”

If this is the Woodland prince, Glorfindel realizes, then that father must be King Thranduil. And he doesn’t imagine Thranduil would be too pleased by Glorfindel’s greeting of his son. So he suggests, “When you are done, I think. Seek me out, and I will explain my error.”

Legolas nods. He leaves with Elrond, a curious glimmer still in Elrond’s eyes, but Glorfindel doesn’t know yet how to tell his tale. He returns to his rooms to think on it, still quite pleased with the day.


End file.
